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Literature Text
I don’t want to come out.
I made a nest,
climbed under the bed,
and I’m sticking to it.
It’s warm and dark and
safe
It’s quiet,
it smells like tea,
(I climbed out to make some).
I don’t have agoraphobia,
I’m not afraid of OUTSIDE.
I’m not afraid of bigness,
of vastness.
I’m in love with the sky,
and the empty of the woods.
But I’m in love with the small,
the cramped warmth
and the blankets.
And I’m in love with the quiet,
I’m peaceful here,
I’m silent.
Sometimes I just need
to not hear my voice
for a while.
Sometimes I wish
I could turn it off forever.
I wish I could nest down,
and forget my name.
I made a nest,
and I’m sticking to it.
It’s dark, it’s warm
and it’s safe.
I made a nest,
climbed under the bed,
and I’m sticking to it.
It’s warm and dark and
safe
It’s quiet,
it smells like tea,
(I climbed out to make some).
I don’t have agoraphobia,
I’m not afraid of OUTSIDE.
I’m not afraid of bigness,
of vastness.
I’m in love with the sky,
and the empty of the woods.
But I’m in love with the small,
the cramped warmth
and the blankets.
And I’m in love with the quiet,
I’m peaceful here,
I’m silent.
Sometimes I just need
to not hear my voice
for a while.
Sometimes I wish
I could turn it off forever.
I wish I could nest down,
and forget my name.
I made a nest,
and I’m sticking to it.
It’s dark, it’s warm
and it’s safe.
Literature
Turn my words against me.
I want my words to take
root in your stomach and grow
up your esophagus, the calyx
of your tongue brushing the edge
of your teeth until the words blossom
from your lips in a slow
explosion of elegance, jawline
trickled with nectar, charming
hummingbirds and honeybees
with the promise of butterfly kisses.
Literature
longing
i scuff at sidewalk bottle caps,
mouthing your name as i pass shriveled milkweed stalks and snuffed-out cigarettes.
once, the clock hands pointed north. they mock me now with each degree elapsed,
each angle pointing to a slew of compass-rose regrets.
mouthing your name as i pass shriveled milkweed stalks and snuffed-out cigarettes,
i hear the second hand’s advance tally my silences like rosary beads,
each angle pointing to a slew of compass-rose regrets.
if only i could pull your name from this unmerciful stampede!
i hear the second hand’s advance tally my silences like rosary beads.
every dull tock measures out those quinine
Literature
Before I Can Become a Writer
Develop insomnia. Develop
problems with substance abuse,
nothing serious, but enough
that I can say “write drunk,
edit sober” and mean it.
Drink tea. Write about drinking
tea. Take up smoking, ignore
the thoughts about it being
a slower suicide. Write about
suicide. Don’t mean it.
Write about sunsets and
ink veins. Mean it.
Fall in love with someone
who will never love me back.
Lament. Write a million
crappy poems and two good
ones. Never show him.
Move on. Write a few more
bad poems. Fall in love with
someone perfect. Screw it up.
Fall in love with someone awful.
Call him perfect. Screw it up.
Cry. Cry for the inevitab
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This isn't about agoraphobia, specifically, but in my new fascination with incredibly small, dark places that I can fit myself. This isn't a new fascination, it's one I've had all my life, but I'm under some personal stresses right now and my way of coping has been to create a "nest" under my dorm bed where I can curl up and hide. I've taken to calling it the Cave. I'm not become asocial (I don't think) but I'm having lots of problems validating my existence and feeling useful in relationships, and those problems melt away when I'm in here.
(Posted from inside the Cave)
© 2013 - 2024 Synesthi
Comments8
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its winter.
small warm spaces are how we survive sometimes
small warm spaces are how we survive sometimes